


LULLABY

by siriusblue



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canonical Character Death, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 11:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13523448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: Following the death of his wife, Watson seeks solace from the only source of comfort he has ever known. He discovers the cure for his broken heart is right under his nose if he has the courage to act.





	LULLABY

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit purple, even for me. I think this trope may also have been written to death but I don't really care.

LULLABY

 

A/N this is my first ever Victorian Johnlock. Actually my first Johnlock in any time period and probably my last. It begged to be written, and I honestly couldn't resist.

  
  
  


Call it a good funeral. I doubt there is ever such a thing but there had been a most satisfactory turnout and the funeral meats had been consumed without undue haste as my hand was wrung repeatedly and condolences offered in soft tones.

 

I think Mary would have approved.

 

I mourned her deeply, a loss tinged with guilt indeed for, even with my training and experience,  I could not save her.

 

Holmes came to take his leave.

 

“My dear Watson. If ever you have need of me, you know where to find me.”

 

His grey eyes were warm and concerned as if he saw something in me that I did not yet see myself. This was something I had grown used to; the greatest mind I had ever known excelled at deducing me and yet I could only mumble my thanks and turn away, afraid that if I let myself linger, he would know the truth of me, vulnerable as I was then, I had no means of concealing it.

 

A truth that would, I firmly believed,  repulse him if he knew, would spell the end of our adventures together and the close friendship that we shared and I jealously guarded. A truth I would take, unspoken, to the grave.

  
  
  


Alone and miserable, some three days later, I found my feet leading me, unsurprisingly, to Baker Street.

 

I allowed Mrs Hudson to cluck over me in her maternal fashion before climbing the familiar stairs to find Holmes crouched over his microscope. Judging by the state of his dress and his hair standing up in whorls and spikes he was deeply invested in a case and I felt guilty for interrupting.

 

My heart was warmed by his delighted expression when he saw me, however.

 

“My dear fellow, “ he said “I expected you yesterday. No matter, you're here now. Sit, man.  You look exhausted.”

 

“I am having trouble sleeping,” I confessed. “The house with everything shrouded in black and no one speaking above a whisper, I admit it is becoming too much for me. Is that a terrible thing?”

 

“Society deems it so, Watson. Yet when have you and I ever cared about what society thinks?” he replied. “It is only natural you should miss Mary but not that everyone should treat you like it is you who are terminally ailing.”

 

I breathed a huge sigh of relief for I could not have borne his condemnation. To change the subject I gestured towards his microscope.

 

“Do you have a new case?” I enquired.

 

“I had, but one that was all too easily solved. It was the gardener, of course.”

 

He smiled then, radiant as the sun, and I felt my heart skip a beat. 

 

“I shall naturally furnish you with all the details so you may write it up, my dear Boswell. I can promise you a superior distraction.”

 

In the telling of his tale and the serving of one of Mrs Hudson's superb suppers, the hours flew past and I realised I would have to take my leave of him. I affected a glance at my pocket watch and sighed, reluctant to leave the familiar comfort of my old armchair.

 

“This has been just like old times, Holmes. It pains me to go.”

 

He made no reply, instead he stood and tucked his violin under his chin, the bow held in his long, elegant fingers. The tune was one I had not heard before, I though it to be one of his own composition,but it was melancholic and tender and its beauty left me breathless, much like the violinist himself.

 

I felt my eyes grow heavy as Holmes continued to play me a lullaby.

 

When he stopped and placed his violin and bow on the table, wild horses could not have dragged me from my chair or his presence.

 

“You are in no fit state to go anywhere, old man “ Holmes said, drawing himself up to his full height. “I insist you stay.”

 

I was too weary to argue but I must have mildly protested when he led me to his bedroom.

 

“Come now, Watson. It is not the first time you and I have had to share a bed. And your old room is uninhabitable at present.”

 

I winced at the memory of nights in country inns where I had lain rigidly awake lest I inadvertently touch the slumbering form of my companion and he become aware of how the physical closeness of him had affected me.

 

His bed was warm and comfortable and I snuggled into the piled eiderdowns, sleep claiming me even before I had the chance to blow the candle out.

 

At some time in the night I woke to find that Holmes had joined me and had wrapped himself round me like a vine. I relaxed into his embrace, savouring the feel of his long frame pressed so close then gasped aloud as his lips brushed my ear.

 

“John…” he whispered.

 

The caress and the use of my first name were almost enough to convince me I was in the middle of a particularly lucid dream but I turned to him, saw both apprehension and tenderness warring on his fine-boned features and knew it was real and with almost heart-stopping joy that my affections were reciprocated.

 

Holmes had always described me as a man of action and I proved this now by pressing my lips to his.

 

“My dearest, “ I began. “Had I known....”

 

He hushed me by kissing me back, one long-fingered hand stroking my cheek. 

 

“I lost you once,” he murmured, a hitch in his voice betraying deep emotion. “I had always considered myself above matters of the heart, especially when my own preferences could see me jailed and ruined, but then my heart broke when you wed and you were gone from me. That you are here now with me like this is a miracle I never thought to see. I never want to lose you again.”

 

“You never will, Sherlock.” I promised him and felt him smile at my use of his name. “ I thought I had lost my life's companion when Mary died but you were here all the time. In all this time it was you I loved. It was always you.”

 

Under the cover of darkness we kissed,  we loved where I was shaken by a passion the likes of which I had never known and, by gaslight in the sitting room over brandy and a pipeful of the finest Turkish blend, we plotted out my return to Baker Street.

 

“Society will frown on such a recent widower taking up lodgings again with such a disreputable character,” he warned me, a roguish twinkle in his eye. I made an indelicate noise.

 

“What do we care for society?” I asked.

 

“Not a jot, my dear fellow.” he replied placidly,  relighting his pipe with a spill from the embers of the fire. “In truth, all I care for is the day when I can welcome you home for good.”

 

I relaxed back in my chair, at peace with the world, knowing that my home would always be wherever this beautiful, mercurial, exasperating man was.

 

And where I would have no more need of a lullaby.

 

The End.


End file.
